Telegram
by EmiliaMartakis
Summary: WWII AU. Amelia receives a telegram in the mail concerning her RAF ace husband, Arthur Kirkland. Pairings- USUK, implied Franada.


Telegram

Casting a last, worried glance at the soldier standing at the front door of her suburban home, Amelia took the envelope, shutting the door softly behind her and muttering a quick word of thanks for his trouble. Her eyes flicked up momentarily as Matthew took her wrist, gently leading her to the living room, where the rest of the family was gathered. Seeing her face as they walked in, Françoise shot Matthew a stricken look, moving over on the couch to make room for them. The radio blared softly in the background as Amelia sat down, pushing a stray auburn lock behind her ear before opening the letter with thick, trembling fingers. Her mother walked over and laid a hand on her daughter's shoulder as she passed Matthew the ripped envelope. Her hands shook violently as she unfolded the paper.

"Don't worry, Am, I'm sure it's good news. . ." Françoise's voice trailed off at her sister-in-law's expression. The normally warm, sparkling blue eyes that identified Amelia were cold and empty, a stark difference.

"He's dead," she announced, her voice expressionless. Behind her, her mother closed her eyes and mumbled something like a prayer. Matthew squeezed her free hand in a faint attempt at comfort.

"It says his. . .his. . ." Amelia faltered, blinking rapidly as the words began to blur together on the yellowed page. "It says his plane was shot down over. . .over Sicily. He saved his wingman's life."

Matthew bowed his head, still gripping his sister's hand tightly. The telegram crinkled where Amelia was holding it, so tightly that her knuckles whitened.

"He's dead," she repeated. Her voice sounded far-off to her own ears. She stared at the telegram until the typed words were merely a collection of lines, the message engraved into her brain.

_We regret to inform you that Lieutenant Arthur Kirkland, Royal Air Force pilot ace, was shot down on July 3__rd__, 1943 over. . ._

"It says that he saved his wingman's life. That was not his responsibility, it should have been the other way around- Arthur shouldn't have had to worry, his wingman was to protect him—" Amelia gave a great shuddering gasp, her hand flying to her throat, the telegram still in her hand. Alarmed, Matthew let go of her other hand, instead prying her fingers off of her neck. A surprising amount of strength was in her grip. Their mother gasped, grabbing onto her arm, and helped her son make Amelia release her grip. Once her hand was finally pried off of her throat, she gasped and choked, her chest rising and falling swiftly as her lungs struggled to compensate from the lack of oxygen. Her fingers had left livid marks on the pale skin of her neck.

Françoise muttered something to Matthew in French- surprising unaffected by the past few moments, she just looked a little concerned. He nodded, still alarmed by his sister's suicide effort, and took both of Amelia's hands. "Amelia, Am, look at me," he said forcefully. She gasped and choked on a sob, shaking her head frantically.

"Amelia," he said again, putting even more force behind his words, "Listen to me—don't do anything like that, anything rash, you hear me? That's the last thing Arthur would've wanted—" He broke off as the name sent her sobbing and trying to break free from his grasp.

"He's dead, Matthew, he's dead—I have, I have to—" Waves of tears, tinted grey from her eyeliner, ran down her cheeks. She sniffed loudly, gasping for air as sob after sob wracked her body, and ripped her hands free from her brother's grasp. He hissed softly as her diamond ring cut his hand as she tore her hands away. She roughly pushed away their mother's arms, resisting all attempts at comfort. Françoise numbly got up and turned off the radio. The only sound in the room now was Amelia's crying and the occasional gasps from her or her family. A few tears sprung to her own eyes at the sight, and as she sat back down, she took Matthew's hand, grasping it as the other girl sobbed. But Matthew's eyes and attentions were all for his sister.

"Arthur," Amelia gasped, choking out his name again and again, as if somehow that would make it all better, as if he would appear, alive and well, if she repeated his name enough times.

"Arthur, Arthur—" She repeated it until it was a sound only.

She could see him standing there, in his tweed suit, the day he first got off the train from the boat that brought him to America. He had run into at the station there—she was there for her brother. When the met again at the university library and discovered that they shared a love of history. She remembered how he had looked when he first asked her out to a dance with him, nervous and fumbling at the proper words. She had thought it was sweet and kissed him on the cheek there. She could see him flying his plane over the waters of the Mediterranean, could see him being shot down by the German plane.

"Arthur—" she cried again, her face distorted and her arms wrapped around herself, as if to keep her together. She ignored her family—all she could hear was the sound of his voice, saw him standing there, felt the warmth of his arms.

She remembered when he proposed to her, had gotten down on one knee and offered her his great-grandmother's ring, regardless of his family's disapproval of them. When they had gotten married, how he had turned so red when the time came for the vows. He never had been great in the spotlight. She could see him in his RAF training gear, about to board the train to the steamer that took him back to England and away from her. How, on that day, he had kissed her then and there at the station without a care for propriety for once. His retreating figure, waving from the train. His plane catching fire, his bloodied, burned figure in the wreckage of his Spitfire.

Amelia shuddered violently, finding it even harder to draw a breath, as tears streamed down her cheeks.

The letters, the hundreds of letters that he had sent still resided in her bedroom drawer. She had treasured and kept all of them. Soon after Arthur had left, he brother, a veteran himself, and his new Parisian wife, Françoise, had moved in in his place. Their arrival had kept the loneliness at bay, had made their house feel like a home again, but now—she clutched at her arms, feeling herself falling apart. It was over. He was dead, dead and gone, never coming back to her. She gasped for breath. A life without him was bleak and desolate; this was the one wound she would never recover from. Her chest felt tight, her throat tighter. She glanced up, reddened and gasping for air, meeting her brother's worried eyes for one frightening moment, blackness creeping into her field of vision, already blurred by tears. She choked as spots began to appear—it was impossible to breathe, and so much easier to just give up. Give up already. She fell into Matthew's outstretched arms, abandoning all resistance as she lost consciousness. Amelia shuddered once and then was still, the telegram, wrinkled and tearstained, still clutched in her hand.


End file.
